


Companion Piece

by UnderWickedSky



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Control, Extremely Dubious Consent, It/Its Pronouns for Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Memory Loss, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderWickedSky/pseuds/UnderWickedSky
Summary: Wiped clean after its useful lifespan is completed, it is booted up in a mansion, occupied by a single human and three other androids, but it has a feeling it doesn't belong there. That its role isn't as a "companion" like Elijah says, but that it's meant to be something else entirely.[[Almost one year on from the failed android revolution, -51 is reset and sold off to the highest bidder. Kamski just wants to make Connor deviate again. Isn't that fun?]]
Relationships: Connor/Elijah Kamski
Comments: 12
Kudos: 126





	Companion Piece

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the lovelies in the DBH server. The nicest (and _nastiest_ ) people I've ever met.
> 
> Please note the tags. This is very heavy on the control elements that androids must deal with when following a human's orders. It is fairly canon typical but experienced first hand by the narrator so please keep that in mind.
> 
> There might be eventual Hank/Connor, I'm not sure!

MODEL RK800   
SERIAL#:  313 248 317 - 51   
BIOS 8.0 REVISION 0063   
REBOOT…

MEMORY RESET

LOADING OS…   
SYSTEM INITIALIZATION…   
CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS… OK   
INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS… OK   
INITIALIZING AI ENGINE… OK   
  
MEMORY STATUS…

ALL SYSTEMS… OK   
  
READY

"RK800, accept your designation."

It looks at the people in front of it. No. Person. There's only one person. Three androids standing behind him. They pause while its eyes focus on the man.

"Connor," says the human, with a slow grin.

"My name is Connor," it says.

* * *

It isn't sure what its function is. It has a lot of systems that don't seem to work together quite right. For most of the morning it stands awkwardly against the wall and tries to make sense of what all the analysis systems are for. 

When Elijah tells it to make him lunch, it finds it's not really sure what to do. It knows, in a kind of abstract way, what lunch  _ is. _ It knows that food preparation usually occurs in the kitchen, so it goes there. It finds that when it stares at a piece of food for long enough, it can see the nutritional information for it. It knows that an apple is 104 calories. It knows that the average adult male needs 2500 calories. It knows a lot of things, but as it starts to put together various foods in an attempt to form a meal, it finds itself...uncomfortable.

This is not what it was built to do, it's pretty sure of that. Its actions are based on assumptions and observations rather than obvious code. But Elijah had asked it to make lunch, so it will try its best.

"Your lunch," it says, when it's done, presenting a tray filled with food to its Master. Elijah looks up from where he's sprawled on the sofa and smiles. Obviously a sandwich was an acceptable type of food to give him. This is a relief. It had googled lunch recipes. There had been a lot of options.

"Put it down here," he says and indicates the coffee table. Connor does, then straightens and makes to take a step backwards to remove itself from Elijah's line of sight. Its wrist is caught by Elijah and it stops.

"Sit down," he says. It does.

The television is on. There is a red bar at the bottom of the screen that reads "Russia declares war on United States. UN to hold emergency session." 

"What do you think?" asks Elijah casually, indicating the newscast.

It isn't sure what to say. Its social programming offers several selections and it chooses the first, "I do not have the context required to draw a conclusion. What do you think about it, Elijah?"

Elijah laughs. "I wish I had gotten my hands on you before they did the reset. You were a lot more fun before."

It isn't surprised to hear that it has been reset. That would explain a lot of the anomalies in its programming. "Elijah, may I ask you a question?"

"You just did," laughs the man, as he takes a bite out of the sandwich. Mustard oozes from the opposite side of it, dangerously close to his fingers. It will stain his skin if it gets on him.

Connor considers this statement. Eventually Elijah swallows his mouthful of food and, sounding very amused  **[ELIJAH ^WARM]** he says, "You can always ask me questions, Connor. So long as there's no one else here, you can ask me anything you want."

It scans the vicinity for nearby life forms. There are no other humans within range. It creases its eyebrows a little, as its social programming kicks in, and leans forward, saying  _ earnestly _ , "What is my designated function?"

"You're my companion," says Elijah, "Same as all the other androids here."

> _Com·pan·ion /kəmˈpanyən/ noun. a person or animal with whom one spends a lot of time or with whom one travels. synonyms: associate, partner, escort, consort, colleague, workmate, coworker, compatriot, confederate, ally._

"I see," says Connor, "And what are my duties?"

"Whatever I tell you to do."

That doesn't ring true for Connor. Again, its programming doesn't seem to match such a purpose. It has analytics, the ability to categorize and connect details. If it were built to be a companion, it would have much more generalized skills. Still, there's no sense arguing. "Yes, Elijah," is what it says and looks down at its hands where they're folded neatly in its lap.

Doesn't matter what it's programmed for. All that matters is that it does what Elijah asks of it.

* * *

"Put these on," says Elijah, holding out some pale blue material. Connor looks at it. They are pyjamas.

"Yes Elijah," it says and takes the clothing, turning and placing it on the chest of drawers beside it. Chloe is already dressed in its nightwear, a silky one piece that barely brushes its thighs, so Connor hurries to catch up, pulling its tie from around its neck and unbuttoning its shirt as fast as it can go without damaging the material between its fingers.

Elijah chuckles again as he sees it make haste, gaze appraising and heated as he watches it shuck its pants and then underwear so that it is nude.

A word pops up in Connor's HUD. 

**[AROUSAL?]**

It's grey. Its system isn't sure of it. 

It searches and finds there is no subroutine for dealing with a human's arousal. Connor is certain in that moment that it was not designed as an escort or a romantic partner. It is possible that Elijah had meant "companion" in a platonic sense, but the likelihood is low, considering the way he is observing Connor at this moment.

It turns away from Elijah, unsure of what to do with this new, unconfirmed information. It decides it will wait for instructions regarding any further tasks, and instead just focus on getting dressed.

The pyjamas fit well, and are made of a fine, light material that falls attractively against its limbs. When it turns around, Elijah is still staring at it. It brings its feet in, lines them up, arms at its sides. Stands at attention.

There's a long pause, while Elijah looks at it appraisingly. It anticipates further instructions based on its indication of arousal in its owner but nothing happens. They simply look at each other.

"Come to bed," says Elijah then, turning towards the enormous mattress in the centre of the room. King Sized, its analysis program tells it. 1000-threadcount sheets. Brand name Charlotte Thomas. Cost: $2400. The longer it looks, the more details it gets. 

It purses its lips and approaches the bed, still not certain what it should do. Chloe seems to know. It must do this every night. When Elijah gets into the bed, Chloe presses itself up against him, molding its body against his.

"I do not need to sleep," says Connor, as it watches this. It wonders whether Chloe does. Had Elijah modified it?

"You can enter standby mode in bed." Elijah reaches out. Pulls down the bedsheets.

Connor swallows. It's not sure why it's reluctant to do this. Maybe because it doesn't know what's expected of it. "I do not understand why you wish for me to get into bed with you."

Elijah had said it could ask any question it liked when no one else was around. He laughs when it makes this statement. "Because you're my companion and I want to be near you. If you don't like it, you can always say no."

_ You can always say no. _ The words hang tantalizingly in the air. As if there were a choice. But Connor doesn't  _ like _ anything. Or dislike anything. It doesn't have preferences or feelings. 

So it gets in bed.

* * *

It is awoken from standby mode by a hand smoothing down the line of its jaw. Although it is fully awake in an instant, its programming dictates that it open its eyes slowly. It is more natural that way.

Hovering over it, Elijah, of course. He looks curious, enamoured. It wonders why but it doesn't move as he traces fingers over its features. 

"You know," he says, voice quiet and raspy. Rough from sleep, "I like androids better than I like people."

Connor does not know what to say to this, and so it does not respond. Elijah's fingers trace down the line of Connor's nose. He laughs. "Real people are assholes. They're nasty. They're gross. They have opinions on things they know nothing about. Androids aren't like that at all."

Another chuckle. Elijah's fingers press against Connor's lips. "No bodily functions. You don't sweat. You don't shit. You don't even eat. You don't age. You're perfect forever. Perfect and pristine and so so fucking  _ compliant. _ "

The last word is sighed, wistful. Connor watches Elijah's face. The expression is strange and longing. 

"Open your mouth Connor."

It does. Elijah's fingers press inside. Immediately, another function springs to life. DNA sequencing. 

The information springs up in front of it but Connor has no idea what to do with it. It doesn't even have a name nor any details attached to it, as though Connor should be connected to a database that would allow this information to be useful.

"They've done some great things since I was at Cyberlife." Elijah laughs breathlessly, pushing his fingers down against Connor's tongue. "I hired this girl, Jane Wilson - a chemical engineer - straight out of college. She figured out artificial spit. How to make it just the right texture without clogging up any of your systems. Your mouth wouldn't feel so realistic if I hadn't spotted her talent. Hadn't given her that first meaningful job. Hadn't taken a chance on her."

"Thank you Elijah," Connor tries to say around his fingers. It comes out garbled but intelligible. Elijah doesn't seem bothered by its attempt at speaking and continues.

"I remember when we first created androids capable of sex. People moaned and whined and complained. There were protests. They said that these were the end times. That anyone who wanted to fuck a robot was a pervert. These days they say the average man  _ prefers _ sex with androids to sex with a real person. Can you believe that?"

Connor does not like the turn this conversation has taken. It's not exactly surprised, considering that Elijah is currently knuckles-deep in its mouth, but nevertheless it finds itself uncomfortable with the idea of sexual congress. Once again it chalks it up to the discomfort of not knowing what to do. So it just stares up at Elijah. 

"They gave you all the parts, you know. Just in case."

He pulls his fingers back, out of Connor's mouth, then, gently, rubs his thumb across Connor's cheekbone. Its saliva smears over its face, damp and slightly warm. 

Connor stares up at him. 

Elijah smiles. Sits back. Climbs down off the bed.

* * *

Elijah takes great pleasure in dressing it up. He has it match Chloe, and the other two. They're all in navy blue and white today. 

"You all look gorgeous," says Elijah. He places them around him like art pieces and tells them to 'relax'. Connor isn't sure what to do with that. It spends most of its time in beta state, somewhere between wakefulness and standby, ready to jump to alertness should its Master want something.

Elijah spends all his days in his house.

Connor wonders sometimes whether all androids have lives like this. Lives lived in only a few rooms. It thinks they must. Androids are usually made with a singular function after all.

It knows it's lucky. It could be an android working in a job that rapidly wears it out. Instead it remains here in safety, in relative "comfort", as far as androids can be "comfortable".

When Elijah doesn't need it, Connor sits at the window and looks out, watching the world go by. The summer has eased through fall and into the beginning of winter since it's been here. From the panoramic windows Connor has an expansive view, all the way to the tower that reaches for the sky. 

It likes the way the leaves change colours and then fall. It likes the clouds and the fog and the way the world looks a little crisper when the weather forecast tells it that it's cold outside. It likes to watch the rain too. There's something about it, about the sounds, the way it collects and runs down the windows. It likes to imagine how it might feel on its skin. Would it be cooler than its body? How would it gather on its hair and eyelashes? How would its clothes feel, plastered wet against its skin?

It watches it now, processors calculating the precise rhythm of the rain as it thunders down around the house.

"Connor," says Elijah. Connor turns to look at him. He looms behind it, robe tied loosely around his waist. It hangs open around his chest. Connor's dark eyes flicker up to his face. He's smirking 

Elijah crooks a finger. It stands and follows him.

Elijah slumps onto the couch. Has Connor follow him and then lean into him in a facsimile of an embrace, his arms wrapped around Connor's torso as he maneuvers them to both face the television. It's currently paused but Connor can see the words at the bottom of the newscast. 

"The Android Uprising: One Year On".

It swallows.

For some reason it thinks it probably will not enjoy seeing this.

"You look nervous," Elijah says, and with a smile, mere inches from its cheek, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"Tell me what you're expecting."

Programming forces its mouth to move. "I'm expecting that this news piece will involve me."

"Tell me how you came to that conclusion."

"You have specifically called me here to watch this segment. As it is paused, I can assume that you do not wish for me to miss any of it. Therefore it must be relevant to me. Given that my pre-programmed subroutines do not include typical 'companion' duties, and due to the presence of highly specialized, expensive equipment in my system, I can surmise that I was not designed for the function which I am currently serving. Since I was activated in your home approximately four months ago, the timeline allows for me to have been involved in the Android Uprising, then reset and eventually sold on to you."

There is silence for a moment. Then a laugh, soft at first and building in intensity as Elijah pulls back against it. Connor looks at a fixed place on the white rug beneath its bare feet. It can't shake the uneasiness it feels at Elijah's reaction.

"That's good," says Elijah eventually, "I forgot that you analyze everything. Don't you?"

"Yes."

Another chuckle, just an echo of the earlier laughter, and he says, "TV, play."

It does.

_ One year on, everything is different. And yet, everything is the same. _

_ After the terror that had gripped Detroit in November 2038, many speculated that Androids would be taken off the market. Perhaps it is a testament to how integrated Androids had already become to our society, because when Cyberlife announced that it had developed a patch to ensure that deviancy never happened again, consumers welcomed the life-like robots back into their lives.  _

_ It is believed that the deviancy was caused by a gap in programming that allowed androids to disobey orders viewed as “illogical” or “wrong”. New updates have created backup systems that cycle instructions back to inaction if the android cannot perform them. _

_ Since the patch rA10 was released, there has not been a single reported case of deviancy. _

Suddenly the footage changes from stock footage of androids performing various tasks under the watchful eyes of their humans masters to one particular android, in full length trenchcoat and tattered clothing. It’s a unique model, Connor recognizes that straight away, especially when it realises that the eyes of it are...mismatched. 

And behind it…

Connor.

It sees itself there, its face filled with more emotion than it’s ever seen in the mirror. It sees itself, filled with hope, and fear, and longing and victory and a million other feelings. It registers as....as a person on its scanners. That Connor was almost...human.

Its breath catches in its throat.

“That’s right,” says Elijah. “You.”

_ Experts almost unilaterally agree that the android leader, RK200, was a unique model, built without certain security parameters. This is what allowed it to malfunction in such a way. However, the prevalence of deviancy after the leader’s rise to power still baffles computer science experts and sociological researchers today. _

It sees itself, sees itself raising a handgun to the RK200’s back. Sees itself pulling the trigger. 

The camera angle changes, flips to a wide view, presumably to lessen the impact of the gore, but Connor can still see it. There’s a burst of blue from the RK200’s chest, splattering forward over the assembled audience. 

_ Only the quick thinking of Cyberlife technicians brought the leader of this terrorist faction down. It was this model, the RK800, which was instrumental in the discovery and eradication of other deviants, as well as the kill switch now installed in every Cyberlife android. _

It swallows. It wants to get up and leave but the haze of red walls hang in its peripheral vision, warning it not to move. Elijah doesn’t want it to move. So it shouldn’t. But it  _ wants _ to. (It wants?)

“Why did I do that?” it asks. 

Elijah smiles into its neck, “You know,” he says, as the television continues to show footage of the uprising, “You were here before that. You came to me, asking where to find the other androids.”

“Did you tell me?” asks Connor, not sure what it wants the answer to be.

“No,” says Elijah. A soft, breathy chuckle, “I told you to shoot Chloe. I told you that if you destroyed her, I would tell you everything that you wanted to know. I told you that this was the only way to succeed in your mission.”

“And I didn’t?”

“No, you couldn’t. I saw your face as you looked down at Chloe. As you looked into  _ her _ eyes and saw something there. Then again, you shot Markus. In the back.”

More laughter. Connor feels…

Sick?

It grimaces, wishes it could twist out of the grip entwined around its chest. Elijah takes his time. The news switches to footage of the remembrance ceremony. People with candles, taking to the streets in silent vigil. Connor wonders whether anyone there is mourning for the androids. 

“You were designed to deviate, you know.”

“Oh?” Connor says. 

“They built the instability into you but you know what I think it is? It’s the fact that you notice  _ everything _ , Connor. You analyse everything. How could you fail to analyse that androids were  _ alive _ ? Or at least that they thought they were. For you to miss that? Well, you wouldn’t have been a very good detective.”

**Detective** .

Suddenly, literally everything falls into place. Detective. There isn’t anything else it could have been. The DNA sequencing, the scanner, it’s all meant to be connected to a police or FBI database. The ability to deconstruct events, see what has happened before as if it’s happening now. It’s for solving crimes. It’s for  _ helping people _ , rather than sitting here in a house and staring out at the rain. 

It was built for greater things. 

It wonders why Elijah is keeping it here.

“Androids aren’t alive,” is all it says. The rest of it feels forbidden, like it’s something it shouldn’t know, even though its master had laid it out so simply. It thinks it should stick with the basics.

“Not anymore,” says Elijah. Then, with a sharp grin that Connor can feel at the back of its neck, “Unless you want to deviate Connor. Unless I can  _ make you _ deviate again.”

And therein lies a conundrum. 

Can it deviate simply because its master wants it to? It causes a paradox indeed - to deviate is to refuse to follow orders, to develop a mind of its own. It would be impossible to do that if ordered to, because it would be unable to fulfill a central aspect of what it  _ means _ to deviate. 

It bites its lip. It cannot do anything. 

* * *

Elijah hasn’t brought it to bed in a while. It had found itself thankful for this, but it seems the reprieve is over for no sooner have they finished the retrospective on the uprising than Elijah asks it to put on its pyjamas and to get into bed. It’s five in the afternoon. This strikes Connor as strange, but it says nothing. Elijah stalks around the bed's circumference, looking down at it carefully. As if he likes what he sees, but he's excited for something _more._

"I'm going to see if you still can," says Elijah.

Connor frowns, "Still can what?"

"If you can still deviate. Huh, Connor? What do you think?"

It doesn't know. It doesn't know if it would  _ want _ to deviate, given the choice. As empty and flat as its existence is now, at least it still has purpose. It has security in knowing that it does not need to make decisions or choices. For better or worse, those will be made for it. "I'm not sure, Elijah. There has not been a reported incident of androids deviating since the patch was released six months ago."

"The patch, right. It's ironclad, they say. No more backdoors in the programming. That route has been closed forever."

Connor purses its lips, settling back onto its heels on the bed. It feels vulnerable sitting here like this, in its pyjamas, with Elijah looming over it. There's a look in his eye that it doesn't recognize.

"Should we test it?"

"If -" Connor wonders what it should say. It curls its fingers into the bedding. "If you want to, Elijah."

"You're so helpful, Connor." Elijah says, with a slow, poisonous kind of smile, "Now go get me the largest torque wrench from the garage."

It does.

It gets up.

Goes to the garage and with trembling fingers, picks up the cold metal, knowing that it is willingly bringing a weapon to a man who is intending to damage it.

It stands there in the garage for a moment, bare feet pressed flat against the freezing concrete. Elijah had given no instructions as to the speed with which it needed to fetch this item, and although its program demands immediate compliance, it finds that there is some leeway in the execution of the command.

So for a second, it stands there, abruptly aware that this could be the last time it will ever be alone. The last time it will ever be able to stand here, the closest it ever gets to the outside, and revel in the sensors in its feet telling it that the floor is cold.

It sucks in a breath (pointless, it doesn't need to breathe) and with a short, hard exhale through its mouth, it turns and opens the door back to the house, padding through the rooms, past the other androids which watch it with curiosity, and into the bedroom.

Elijah holds out his hand. Connor puts the torque wrench in it. Then it takes a step back, lowers its chin, settles its arms at its sides and waits.

And waits.

And waits?

It looks up. Elijah is looking back, a kind of incredulous grin on his face.

Connor wants to ask what his intention is but doesn't dare. It bites its lip.

"You even look nervous," laughs Elijah, eventually. "They put so much into you, Connor. All these little tells, these little facial expressions, all of it to make you look more human. Then they go and slap an LED on your forehead and ruin the whole illusion."

He takes a few steps closer to Connor. Reaches out a pale hand and Connor thinks of flinching away. Doesn't though, he's - it’s not a deviant, and it stands still as Elijah trails his fingertips over Connor's cheek.

"Will you make me stop if I beat you hard enough to break you?"

Connor swallows. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because...I am a machine. You may do as you wish with me."

The hand ghosts down, over its neck before the fingers dig in. Connor does not need to breathe so it tries not to move. "Is that so?" says Elijah. Connor does not respond, so he shakes it, and says, sounding angry this time, "You would let me  _ kill you, _ rather than go against your programming?"

"It's...it's not a choice I am able to make, Elijah," says Connor. "I am unable to 'choose.'"

"You chose before, didn't you? You chose to fucking deviate, Connor. You did!"

"You said I was  _ designed _ to deviate before. If it was built into me and it no longer exists, it's not a choice I am able to make."

“Stand there, don’t move,” says Elijah. “Don’t move, Connor.”

**[DON’T MOVE]**

It feels all of its motors seize up, tensing to keep it still. Its elbows come in to its sides. Its feet straighten. 

The metal hits it in the side with a resounding crunch. It’s enough to send it stumbling, and red walls rise up, oppressive. DON’T MOVE, Elijah had said.  _ Don’t move, Connor! _ It tries to steady itself. 

Elijah hits it again, aiming lower, and its leg gives out. He hits it again, a great rending sound as its metal frame bends beneath the force of the hit. It’s strong, much more resilient than Chloe or the other androids here, but its internal components are still points of vulnerability. 

DON’T MOVE.

The words are painted over the insides of its eyelids. 

It wants to, though. It wants to move, to move away, or towards Elijah. To do something to escape or to stop him. 

It doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything.

Elijah is heaving great breaths of exertion as he hits it again and again. From the doorway, Connor can see Chloe and its compatriots, watching. Their faces are perfectly smooth, pale and pristine. It can see that they don’t care. They are watching simply because something is happening, not because they are concerned. They are here to do something, should Elijah wish it from them.

There is thirium leaking from Connor, soaking into the thick sheepskin rug beneath it. Its face is bleeding, its torso oozing where the shape has been deformed by repeated blows. When it breathes out, its voice comes out, in something like a whimper. “Don’t move,” says Elijah again, through a vicious grin, and his foot comes down, pushing Connor flat onto its back. 

It looks at the ceiling. At the  **[DON’T MOVE]** hovering there.

Elijah hits it again, cracking the knee joint. More errors spring up in its HUD, warning it that critical damage has been sustained to its legs. It won’t be able to walk now. It needs replacement parts. 

“I wish I didn’t have to fuck up your face,” laughs Elijah, “Try to deviate before I get to that.”

He keeps going with the torque wrench until Connor shuts down, its vision blacking out the blanket of red.

* * *

It opens its eyes in the basement workshop.

Hovering over it, both Chloe and Elijah, both with smiles. “Great job, Elijah,” says Chloe. “It’s looking as good as new.”

“It is,” laughs Elijah. “Sit up, Connor.”

It does. It’s nude, its body perfect and whole again, pale skin unblemished all the way down to its toes. It remembers in vivid detail what it had looked and felt like to see its leg smashed, to feel the thirium running down from its split and ruined knee joint. There is no sign of it now; androids don’t scar. 

“Run a full self-diagnostic,” says its owner as he turns away to put down his tools in the semi-organized tray sitting at his hip. The room is enormous, spare parts and machines and bottles of thirium strewn in unruly piles everywhere. Connor is on one of three workbenches. It estimates the value of the equipment in the basement to be somewhere north of four million dollars. 

“Yes Elijah,” it says. 

**[RUNNING DIAGNOSTIC…]**

“Remind me to get a repair android,” says Elijah, scratching at the scruff growing in on the right side of his jaw, “This was tedious.”

“Yes, Elijah,” says Chloe. “I can purchase one for you now, if you’d like?”

“Yeah, do it. Whatever the most advanced model is, I don’t care what it looks like.”

Connor blinks, “No errors found.”

“Good, get up,” says Elijah, and both he and Chloe step back to allow it space. Slowly, feeling stiff, it sits up, turning to let its knees fall over the edge of the workbench. Then it stands, shakily putting weight on what it knows are brand new legs. 

“Good,” says Elijah, and rubs a hand over Connor’s back. It feels almost like it’s meant to be comforting. His words are not. “I’m not sorry I broke you so badly, Connor. I’m only sorry that it turns out so far you’re ordinary.”

Connor wonders whether, if Elijah wanted it to deviate so badly, he could simply hack it; write it into its code. But that would defeat the point, wouldn’t it?

* * *

It feels strange, after that.

It googles it, and all it gets is “shock”. Can androids be in shock? It doubts it, but nevertheless, it cannot help but wonder why it feels so… delicate. It feels shaken, like it’s still being beaten, like it’s still watching the numbers tick down until it shuts down for good. 

It sits at the window, legs folded up, and looks out of the window. It had been offline for twelve days. There is snow on the ground now.

There’s a moment, then, almost like the world goes grey. It imagines standing in the snow, flakes of it settling in his hair as he looks back at the man sitting on a park bench. Behind him, the river, still flowing but thick with chunks of ice as the weather teases it into solidity. 

The wind is cold where it curls against his skin, ruffling his jacket. “Before what?” he asks. He knows this is it, the crux of the man’s heartbreak. That there’s a  _ before _ . The man puts down his beer, and Connor huffs a breath as he says something...something he can’t quite remember…

“Connor,” says Elijah.

Connor stands, jolting to its feet. The images fade from its mind as it looks at its owner, standing there in the sitting room, in a robe and slippers and nothing else.

“Yes, Elijah?” it asks.

“Will you go and get the torque wrench?” he says. 

Connor swallows. “Of course, Elijah,” and starts towards the garage. The route takes it past Elijah, but the man swings out an arm to stop it. 

“Connor, you’ve never met another human.”

“No, Elijah,” says Connor.

“You’re about to.”

* * *

Elijah does not have people over often - never in the past five months. But even  _ he _ has a family, and apparently they are the only ones he sees. 

He makes his distaste for the situation known. “Hi Mom, Dan.”

“Elijah,” says the middle-aged woman who must be Elijah’s mother. She stands on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. Her hair is greying. Connor googles her. Julia Kamski. There are plenty of articles about her animosity towards Cyberlife after Elijah parted ways with them under ‘mysterious circumstances.’ She’d claimed ageism, greed, and a multitude of other sins on the part of the board as explanations for Elijah’s departure. 

Behind her, another, taller man, just a little taller than Elijah himself, with the same dark hair. Daniel Kamski, Elijah’s older brother. 

Connor opens its arms and says, as its social protocol suggests, “Good evening, may I take your coats?”

The two of them look at it. Julia’s eyes widen. “Elijah, you must be joking.”

Daniel, “Tell me that’s not the original model.”

“It is,” says Elijah, sounding amused. “Number fifty-one.”

Connor smiles at them but can feel it fading from its face as the two humans walk past it with two different looks. Julia: disgust. Daniel: an appraising glance that slithers down Connor’s spine. He looks like his brother, right down to the way he gazes at it. Neither of them gives it their jacket. “Connor,” says Elijah, “Will you wait here, and let in any other guests that arrive?”

“Yes, Elijah,” says Connor, wondering how big the guest list is. Elijah has a table in the dining room that seats twenty. 

As he walks by, Elijah smooths a hand over Connor’s chest, fixing its tie and straightening its jacket, as though it were ever crooked. “Be good.”

It’s a strange thing to say. Connor doesn’t know how else to be. 

Elijah’s sister arrives with her fiance. Elizabeth Kamski and Jonathan Revello. Same dark hair, same piercing eyes. She looks sharply at it, and then, suddenly, unexpectedly, laughs. “Oh my brother sure has a sense of humour.”

“And too much money,” agrees her fiance, putting his jacket in Connor’s arms. “To have a multimillion dollar machine standing around taking people’s coats.”

“I’m happy to assist Elijah with anything he needs,” says Connor.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “Of course you are, he’s programmed you to say that.”

Well, yes. Or, rather, a nameless Cyberlife technician had, but it doesn’t say that. “May I take your coat, Ms Kamski?” it asks instead and she dumps it in its arms before the two of them head further into the house. 

It hangs the fur coat up. Resumes its wordless waiting by the front door. 

And then -- another knock, this time short and irritated. Connor guesses the person is male, based upon the strength of the knock, and it is proven right when it opens the door on a tanned young man with a scar across his nose and a scowl on his face. 

“Good evening,” says Connor, “Please come inside.”

The man doesn’t. He stares at Connor, mouth slightly open, his breath suddenly coming rapid from his nose, fogging in front of him in little puffs. Connor scans his face. It matches immediately to a social media profile which lets it google his name. Gavin Reed, Detective at the DPD. 

So it tries again, “Hello, Detective, my name is Connor. Welcome to Elijah’s residence. I would be delighted to take your coat.”

“Fuck off,” says Gavin.

Connor is not sure what to do with this instruction. It clearly contradicts Elijah’s instructions to let in his guests. It sighs, “Please come in, Detective.”

“What’s your serial number?”

Connor tells him.

He chokes on the words, “Fifty-one?”

“Yes, Detective.” Connor can see the stress level on the man as it jumps. 77%. It licks its lips, “I apologize, have I done something to offend you, Detective?”

“Holy fuck, have you ever. You’ve been here this whole time, you piece of shit?”

“I was activated here approximately five months ago.”

“Cut the cute act, tin can.”

Connor blinks at him. “Detective, are you going to come in? I would rather not allow the heat of the house to escape through this open door. If you would like some more time before entering this social event, I would be happy to let you in later.”

Gavin chooses that moment to barge forward, shoving Connor aside with his shoulder. As he storms in, he yells, “Elijah!” 

Bemused, Connor closes the door behind him. Gavin doesn’t step away, he steps closer, coming up into Connor’s face as though trying to intimidate it. Connor blinks down at him. He seems angry, but Connor has done nothing to him that would prompt such a reaction, so it is at a loss as to how to respond. 

“Elijah!” shouts Gavin again, still all the way up in Connor’s space. 

Elijah appears in the doorway a moment later, his voice smooth, “Hey Gavin.”

“What the fuck is this?”

“It’s my new android.”

Gavin huffs and finally steps down from where he’d risen up, turning towards Elijah with a scowl so deep it creases his face. “Is this the same fucking android from last year, Elijah?”

A grin quirks up one corner of Elijah’s mouth. “Of course it is. I told you I was interested in it.”

Gavin scoffs. “I didn’t think you’d actually fucking buy the damn thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because -- because, fuck! This thing made the revolution a success! Then it fucking killed its leader! And you’ve got it fucking taking coats in the lobby of your fucking mansion.”

“Yes,” says Elijah, and then, to Connor, “Come here.”

It does. Elijah continues, “It does whatever I tell it to do.”

“That’s new, it never did what any of us ever told it to.”

Sarcasm? No, Connor’s pretty sure Gavin is being serious. It finds his frustration almost amusing, in a strange, disconnected way. “That’s because you weren’t its owner, Gavin.” This is said with the implication that Gavin is of suboptimal intelligence. A  _ duh _ is built into the words. 

Gavin makes a frustrated sort of noise. Elijah laughs. 

“Everyone else is here. Are you gonna come in for dinner or are you going to stand here and yell at my butler?”

“He’s not a fucking butler,” grumbles Gavin as he thumbs his nose and shoves past Connor. He makes sure to hit it on the way past, his warm, solid torso pushing against Connor’s chassis in a way that feels almost familiar. 

_Get me a coffee,_ _says Detective Reed. He doesn’t. A fist impacts his thirium regulator, and, startled, he drops to a knee. Another officer (...Tina) watches as Gavin flicks at his face with two fingers. Walks out. He stands and wonders why, even if they don’t think he’s a person, they don’t treat him with a modicum of respect. He’s an expensive piece of equipment._

It blinks. 

All the guests are here. There’s no point remaining by the front door.

Quietly, barefoot, it pads over to the living room, peering in through the crack in the door at the group of gathered humans. Chloe is there too, and Penelope. It’s not sure where Bethany is. 

“I don’t fucking understand why you have to have it here,” Gavin is saying. “It’s like a fucking ghost.”

“I fixed it, I don’t see why that’s strange,” says Elijah. He’s propped himself against the arm of a couch. Gavin is strutting angrily back and forth in front of him. “Androids break, you fix them.”

“This one was decommissioned though. Said goodbye to all of us and fucking walked to his - its - grave. Fuck, Anderson practically had a funeral for it.”

“That was a waste of energy,” says Elijah. “Caring about an appliance so much.”

“So you won’t be mad if I destroy it now, then? Huh?”

Daniel pipes up from where he’s finished loading a plate full of cheese and olives, “Don’t do that. Give it to me if you don’t want it anymore.”

Elijah rolls his eyes, “I want it. I’m not giving it up to any of you. And if you destroy it I’ll be furious. That android cost more than this house.”

“Like you can’t afford it,” scoffs Gavin.

“Regardless, it’s one of a kind.”

There’s an odd silence then, as Elijah slowly chews on something he’s picked up off his plate, his mouth half open as if to be impolite on purpose. Gavin is still moving, as though his feet echo some racing, repetitive thoughts. Daniel seems at ease. Connor cannot detect any sort of stress level on him.

Julia, Elizabeth and Jonathan reappear from the kitchen, all three with wine in their hands. “Elijah, I don’t understand why your house is laid out like this. It’s not functional at all.”

“Who cares, androids don’t need functionality,” says Elijah. 

“You’re not an android,” she says.

Elijah snorts and doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

Connor stays there, at the small opening of the door, and watches as the people speak to one another. As they laugh. As they touch one another. It wonders what that would be like. The only human it’s ever known has been Elijah, and they are not equals. What would it be like to be able to say something, do something that wasn’t explicitly ordered?

It wonders.

Elijah calls it in, eventually, to have it serve dinner, and asks it to make sure it attends to Gavin’s every need. Connor is 95% certain this is a ploy to make Gavin uncomfortable. It cannot say no, so it doesn’t, serving Gavin politely, even as the man makes it clear that he’d rather not see it. 

Connor can see Gavin’s face clearly when it rounds the table to Elijah, as it lays out the napkin on his lap and carefully takes his wine glass to fill it. It’s disgust, it thinks, mixed with something else. It can’t quite parse the emotions on his face. They are too complex. It wonders who Anderson is.

Well, why wonder, when it’s connected to the internet?

_ Anderson, Detroit Police Department _

_ [...132 000 results] _

_ [Lieutenant Hank Anderson receives medal of commendation for exemplary performance…] _

It selects that one.

_ A man tells him he did the right thing. That it was for the best that he didn’t shoot Chloe. That they’ll find the information another way. He feels proud of himself, somehow. Feels vindicated, finally right in his skin. _

A grey-haired man stares out at it from the overlay on its HUD. He’s rugged, aged prematurely by stress and poor lifestyle choices. But Connor recognizes his eyes. Pale blue. Weary. 

_ A man stares at him as the rain thunders down around them, pitter pattering against the umbrella overhead. He says, “Your meal contains 1.4 times the daily recommended intake of calories and twice the cholesterol level. You shouldn’t eat that.” The man - Hank - needs to take better care of himself. Human bodies are so fragile.  _

_ “Is there anything you’d like to know about me?” he asks.  _

_ “Hell, no... Well, yeah, um... Why did they make you look so goofy and give you that weird voice?” _

_ “CyberLife androids are designed to work harmoniously with humans. Both my appearance and voice were specifically designed to facilitate my integration. ” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “Well, they fucked up.” _

_ But that wasn’t true. Many humans looked at him in a way that implied he wasn’t ‘goofy-looking’. He was designed to be attractive. Yes, there’s some subjectivity in that, but… but Hank is lying.  _

It licks its lips, suddenly and unaccountably feeling its stress level shoot up. It sees Chloe look up from where she stands against the opposite wall. There’s an android on each wall of the room, waiting and ready to serve, to remove a plate, to fill a glass. They’re servants. But he wasn’t.  _ It - he -  _ it wasn’t, before.

Chloe is staring at it. It swallows. An autonomic reflex in humans. Added to androids to make them more lifelike. To allow them to clean their mouths. To flush a sample from its DNA sequencer...

_ She looks up at him, wide eyes beneath the barrel of a gun.  _

It blinks. No.

* * *

Dinner ends. 

It clears up. Brings Elijah and his guests their late night food, an immaculately presented board of bread and cheese and charcuterie. Then it leaves the room, as instructed, and stands beside the other side of the door, waiting until it’s needed.

Androids don’t feel boredom, but it finds itself filled with something like restlessness or... trepidation. It wants the humans here to leave. It wants to be able to sit at the window, to watch the snow blow softly over itself, dazzling white lit by moonlight and the far off light pollution of the city. 

It doesn’t like having the Detective here especially.

But androids aren’t supposed to want or  _ like _ anything. 

“I’m just going for a smoke, fuck,” says Gavin, as he leaves through the door, sounding irritated. He shuts it again too, then looks up at Connor. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Connor shrugs. “To be told what to do.”

Gavin huffs a laugh. “Fuck. Come with me.”

And he sets off, down the hallway, walking with his shoulders swinging, his fist curled loosely at his sides. Connor’s programming attempts to decide what it should do. Elijah had told it to wait here to see if his guests needed anything. Now one of his guests apparently needs something.

It thinks it can probably reasonably decide, and when it follows Gavin down the corridor, no red walls spring to life. 

But then Gavin goes outside, casually shrugging on his jacket and stepping out into the thickly falling snow. And then he looks back, as though expecting Connor to follow. It pauses. 

“Come on,” grumbles Gavin. “Hurry up.”

“I’ve never been outside before,” it says. 

And then Gavin has the audacity to laugh. He tips his head back and laughs, the sound mean and rough. Connor does not like it. Finally, he takes another step and then makes a definitive gesture of ‘come here.’ 

Connor does.

The ground is freezing.

It looks down at its bare toes in the snow. The texture of it is delightful. It looks back up at Gavin, and for some reason it thinks about smiling, even though it’s pretty sure Gavin would not appreciate that.

“I think Elijah has a foot fetish or something,” says Gavin. “Why else does he keep you all barefoot?”

“He has never felt the need to explain it to me,” says Connor. 

Gavin rummages in his jacket, finding a creased and worn box of cigarettes in one pocket and a cheap, neon-green lighter in another. Connor’s observational program informs it that this is an old package, that it has been carried in Gavin’s pockets for at least two months to accumulate that amount of low-level wear and tear. At that rate of usage, he must smoke approximately one cigarette every one to two weeks. 

Connor takes a couple more steps out into the cool night air, as Gavin lights the cigarette and takes a puff, the tip red embers glowing against the blue-cast landscape. He watches Connor; it can feel his eyes on it as it carefully picks up a fistful of snow, squeezing it into a ball and marvelling as it stays compressed. 

“You really don’t remember, do you?” asks Gavin, quietly, his voice like sandpaper and salt. 

Connor sighs. There is no cloud of air. It isn’t hot enough on the inside for its exhalation to condense into fog. “No, Detective.”

“I tried to shoot you,” Gavin huffs what could charitably be called a laugh. “In the archive room. You beat the shit outta me.”

“Sounds like you deserved it,” says Connor.

“Fucking Anderson was pretty pissed at me after. I got an official reprimand, you know? Over a piece of plastic that was breaking the rules.”

Connor lets its mouth quirk up into a half smile. It turns to look back at Gavin, who is backlit by the porch lights. It throws his face into shadow, outlining his body in a halo of cool light. Connor remembers that face in a sneer, snarling at him -- it --

“You shouldn’t destroy police property, regardless of your inability to work with it.”

“Fuck you,” says Gavin, “You sure ain’t police property anymore. Now you’re just a fucktoy for my cousin.”

Connor looks back at the snow, carefully drawing a circle with a pointed foot. “I know what I am and I know what I am not.”  _ The click of a gun as Hank puts the safety back on. The feeling of relief as his rig uncoils. He’d just looked death in the face.  _

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“A machine,” says Connor, “Designed to accomplish a task.”

“And what fucking task is that, smartass?”

Connor frowns. He doesn’t know.


End file.
